


A State of Undress

by mycapeisplaid



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Humor, M/M, ambiguous setting within canon, eventual silverflint, flint and his pirate panache, it's hard undressing a pirate captain!, old and likely unreliable cures for medical ailments, slightly cracky premises, walk walk fashion baby, what happened to Flint's white shirt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28883919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycapeisplaid/pseuds/mycapeisplaid
Summary: It's not everyday you get to undress your Captain.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver
Comments: 30
Kudos: 42





	1. The Jellyfish Incident

**Author's Note:**

  * For [olincino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/olincino/gifts).



The Jellyfish

At the moment Captain Flint looked more like a bedraggled dog than the most feared pirate in the Carribean. A very angry bedraggled dog. Silver had been in the galley most of the morning, but he’d come up to get some fresh air. They were en route to Tortuga from Nassau when they’d spotted another ship sailing the black, and they’d rendezvoused in order for Flint to secure her captain as an ally. Flint had taken Billy with him, rowed a longboat out to the _Andromeda_ and, from what Silver was told from those who had watched through the spyglass, was greeted like a king. 

That was close to sunrise. Now, Flint had returned, and, for some reason, he was soaking wet and absolutely infuriated.

“Get Howell,” he bellowed. “NOW.” Billy ran, leaving Silver standing there alone. 

“Are you all right, Captain?” he asked.

“No, I’m not fucking all right,” spat Flint as he stood there, dripping onto the deck. He held up his hands, which were already bright red and blistering. “Fucking sea wasps,” he said between his gritted teeth. 

Silver’s eyebrows furrowed. Sea wasps? They were rarely troubled by insects out at sea.

“Jellyfish, you idiot!” said Flint. “They were everywhere! Oh God, there’s one in my shirt. I can feel it.”

“What?”

“There. Is. A. Jellyfish. In. My. Shirt.”

“How’d it get there?”

“Well, gee, Mr. Silver, I suppose it swam there,” Flint roared. “Ow! Fuck! Get it off me!”

“I didn’t know jellyfish stings were so painful.”

“THESE ONES ARE! GET IT OUT!”

Silver glanced to see if Billy was returning with Howell, but he was on his own. “You’re going to have to take that coat off,” he said to his cantankerous captain. 

“I would have done so already if I could,” said Flint icily, flopping his useless, stung hands. “You’re going to have to do it for me.”

Flint was wearing his long cloth coat, the sleeves of which folded up into wide cuffs that resembled inverted bells, Flint’s swollen hands the clappers. Seawater was still pooled in them. “I think you’ve got one there,” said Silver, pointing to the cuff. “It’s got some dangly bits.”

“Don’t touch it,” said Flint. “Ow, ow, buggering shit fuck. There’s more than one. Hurry.”

“How did you fall in, anyway?”

“Silver, I swear I’ll run you through if you don’t shut up and help me.”

“I’m trying. It’s not my fault you’re wearing...this...ridiculous...coat…” Silver managed to free Flint of one sleeve, and then pulled the rest of it off him. Silver had never worn a coat with sleeves of this nature, however, and he was dismayed to find that the left sleeve, which he was peeling off Flint’s arm inside-out, got stuck over the decorative cuff. Had Silver been thinking straight at the time, he would have realized this immediately. But he was nervous and slightly frightened -- Flint _killed people_ when he was displeased, after all. That Silver was still alive after the trouble he’d put Flint through was still a miracle. Silver had hoped, after all, that they would become friends.

Silver’s eyes met Flint’s. Flint growled. No friendship today. Silver tugged, then yanked, then decided the best course of action would be to pull the coat back up again and then try pulling on the sleeve itself from the wrist. Finally, Flint was free of the coat, but his face and neck were turning alarmingly red.

“Are you going to die?” Silver asked. “I’m only asking because…”

“TAKE OFF MY SHIRT,” said Flint through gritted teeth.

Silver’s hands went to the front of Flint’s shirt and tried to pull it from his trousers, but it wouldn’t budge. 

“Hurry,” urged Flint. “It sodding hurts.”

“I _am_ hurrying,” said Silver. “You’re wearing too many clothes!” 

Silver’s fingers fumbled with Flint’s belt buckle. That was the thing about nerves, wasn’t it. It made fingers useless. It took him nearly a solid minute to finally unclasp the wide leather belt, and then there was the matter of the sash, which was knotted. Any sailor knows a wet knot refuses to be undone. Flint began to whimper, so Silver reached for his dagger. 

“I’m going to have to cut this off you,” he said.

“No!” Flint cried. He stared down at Silver, his gaze malignant. “It’s my favorite one.”

“It’s either that or I cut the shirt off,” offered Silver. 

“It’s my only white shirt. _Ow_. Fuck.”

“Well, then, the scarf’s got to go.”

Flint nodded warily. “Don’t you fucking nick me with that.” 

“Stupid, fucking, bastard scarf,” Silver muttered as it refused to be parted from its captain in an expedient fashion. Many pirates had scarves -- useful for tying around one’s head to keep off the sun, for example, or to staunch a wound. Silver had yet to acquire one.

“It was a gift,” said Flint sadly. 

“I’ll steal you another,” Silver said and sawed through the material. He cursed a steady stream of four letter words as he worked. The scarf was not to be trifled with.

Finally, the sash fell to the ground. Silver watched it go, and noticed Flint’s fingers were now looking more like sausages than human phalanges. He vaguely wondered if he should find a way to cut off Flint’s rings. His hands didn’t look too good. Flint had done horrible things with those hands. Perhaps the jellyfish knew it, and decided to exact some sort of karmic revenge.

“Where is it, exactly?” asked Silver. “In your shirt.”

“I think there’s one on my belly, right side. And another, my back, same.”

Silver tugged at the shirt until it came free from the confines of Flint’s trousers, and pulled the wet fabric away from Flint’s skin. A mangled looking blob of translucent tissue fell with a wet splat to the ground just as Howell and Billy came back on deck.

“Don’t touch it,” grumbled Flint. “The tentacles are venomous. Bastards. Someone fling that thing overboard!”

“Help me with this shirt,” Silver called to Billy. “Arms up, Captain,” said Silver. Silver saw the begrudging look Flint was giving him only for a moment, before they were pulling the shirt up over the Captain’s head as a mother would to a child’s night shift. 

Silver had never seen Flint in any state of undress. No one had. He was always fully clothed. Silver hadn’t been a part of a pirate crew before, but he knew that pirate captains had to have a certain panache, a particular certain flair that distinguished them from the men who voted them in. A wardrobe with more than two changes of clothes was a luxury afforded only to a captain. Silver had the inkling that Flint _liked_ clothing, that he enjoyed the swish of his greatcoat, the shine of the many buttons and buckles, the polished leather, embroidered cotton, fine-woven linen. He made a very fine pirate. 

Silver barely had time to marvel at Flint’s wide, broad chest, the solid muscles, the freckles spread like stars across the expanse of skin before Howell was there, with a cutlass, using the dull edge to peel off the jellyfish from Flint’s back. Silver used the moment to sneak a peek at the captain’s torso, which was already covered in angry-looking welts where the tentacles had touched him. 

Billy was still struggling with Flint’s shirt -- he’d managed to get his head out, but the cuffs were trapped around his wrists and swollen hands, and Flint had to stand there, growling and shaking and furious as both Silver and Billy tried to free him from his bonds.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he said, resigned, “just cut it. You need to hurry.”

Silver hesitated. “But it’s your only white shirt.”

“I’ll get another! Cut the sleeves! Get it off me NOW!”

Silver grabbed the knife and went to it. Finally, the shirt fell to the floor, and Flint stood there, still clad in wet trousers and his boots, the white cuffs of his sleeves still around his wrists like frilly manacles. 

“There!” said Silver. “Shirt’s off.”

“Son of a goddamn mangy cur,” said Flint. “It took you long enough.”

“Why, you’re welcome, Captain,” said Silver, smiling beatifically. 

“Clear the deck!” yelled Howell, and the men scattered below. 

“What’s happening?” Silver asked Billy as he, too, was steered below decks.

“Captain’s especially sensitive to jellyfish stings,” he explained. “And there’s really only one good remedy this far from shore. He’s gonna have to get soaked. Poor fellow. How mortifying. He’s going to be in such a foul mood.”

“Why’s that?”

Billy looked at him as if he were an idiot. Most of the men did. “Don’t you know how to treat jellyfish stings?”

Silver shook his head.

“Piss,” said Billy.

“Oh,” said Silver. There was a long pause as both of them processed that tidbit of information. “So who’s going to…”

“The only man who can piss on the captain on this boat --and live, that is-- is the doctor,” said Billy. “You got an empty bottle? The rest of us piss in there.”

“Yuck,” said Silver.

“Well, it works,” said Billy. “You’d better make something good for supper. Uncork the best rum. Set out some vinegar, too. Howell’s going to need it.”

Silver retired to the galley and began peeling potatoes. He was exhausted. Undressing a pirate captain was hard work!

“Drink up, lads,” he heard Billy tell the crew. “We’re going to need to make some water.”

Silver was infinitely relieved that he had an empty bladder, and he sincerely hoped he’d stay that way. He may have secretly been harboring a fancy for the most feared man in the Carribean, and there was something just way too weird about knowing his captain was sitting there, hurt and angry, his wounds covered in smelly, urine-soaked rags. He’d rather not be a part of it. 

Meanwhile, he’d peel potatoes and be thankful for his excellent memory, which had, thankfully, captured the broad expanse of Flint’s chest, his strong pectoral muscles, little pink nipples, auburn chest hair, and the angry red welts across his stomach. 

Maybe, if he were lucky, one day he’d see if it left a scar.


	2. A Sticky Situation

Silver spent the entire afternoon chewing his fingernails. This was because Flint and a small raiding party had gone over the rail to sack a small merchant ship. The prize might be minimal, but Flint had deemed it would be worth the risk, so he chose ten men and went. 

It wasn’t that Flint wasn’t perfectly capable of handling it. Silver knew him to be competent and ruthless. It was just that Silver had been feeling very fond of the captain as of late. They’d finally gotten to the point where Flint no longer completely distrusted him. Sometimes the captain would even smile at him, as one manipulative bastard did to another. But it was a fragile friendship, and Silver wanted it to be more. He wanted to be Flint’s friend, his genuine friend. Silver wondered if Flint would ever allow himself to have that kind of friendship again, after Gates. Flint still burned with angry passion, but there was also a hollowness to him that wasn’t there before, and Silver almost pitied him for it. Over the past months, Silver had found himself doing something he’d never really done before: caring about someone other than himself.

It was this newfound concern for Flint, the man, that made Silver nervous today, wondering whether or not their captain would return bloodied. There was something powerfully compelling about Flint covered in blood; it was, after all, seeing Flint beat the shit out of Singleton that cemented him as a dangerous man in Silver’s mind. Dangerous -- and savagely beautiful.

It was that image of Flint, victorious in winning over the crew, was in Sliver’s mind now, as he milked the dairy goat. He actually liked milking the dairy goat. It was relaxing, meditative. 

He’d just finished and was giving Lucy a good scratch behind the ears when he heard the commotion above, and then, someone calling for him.

“Silver! Come quickly!”

“What?”

“The Captain! He’s had a bit of an… incident!”

Silver climbed the steps as fast as he could, skidding onto the deck of the _Walrus_ , terrified. Was Flint hurt? Had he been mortally wounded? Was he bleeding to death, his guts hanging out of his abdomen? Silver was so convinced he would be seeing blood that for one horrible moment, that’s what he did see: his captain, absolutely drenched in dark, congealing liquid. The only parts of him that were clean were his eyeballs and his teeth, which were on display as he growled his displeasure.

“The fuck?” asked Silver, his brow furrowing. 

“Well,” said Muldoon, “it turns out the crew of the _Lady Sofia_ were prepared for unwanted visitors, and rigged their own booby traps of sorts. The captain fell right into it. Literally. I’m afraid he’s covered in…”

Silver stepped forward, swiped a finger over Flint’s forehead, and sucked it into his mouth. “Molasses,” he supplied. He started to laugh, saw Muldoon’s face, and Flint’s murderous sneer, and stifled it back down. “Well, Captain, you seem to have gotten yourself into a bit of a pickle. Or perhaps I should say...a sticky situation.”

Flint growled. Molasses dripped from his beard. It dripped from _everywhere_. He was making a sticky brown puddle on the deck. Behind him, on the sea, the _Lady Sofia_ went on her merry way, still fully loaded.

By now, the rest of the _Walrus_ crew was on deck, trying and (some of them) failing to contain their mirth; Silver watched as Flint grew angrier and angrier. That molasses was going to boil right off him soon, if it didn’t harden first. It must have been horribly uncomfortable, to be completely soaked like that. Painstakingly, Flint made his way toward his cabin. He left gooey puddles in his wake. Silver pitied him. Silver himself had pine resin in his hair once, and the only thing for it was to take scissors to it. He couldn’t imagine how it must feel to be absolutely doused in this viscous stuff. 

Flint moved as if he were walking underwater, slowly and with great effort. He managed to enter his cabin, and shut the door behind himself.

“Well,” said Silver to Muldoon, who had finally allowed himself to laugh, “that could have been much worse.”

“How’s that?” wheezed Muldoon.

“Could have been whale oil.”

Muldoon giggled anew, and Silver preened. He liked to make Muldoon laugh. Silver had just opened his mouth to say something else at Flint’s expense when the door to his cabin opened again. 

“Silver!” bellowed Flint. “Get in here!”

“It was nice knowing you,” said Muldoon.

***

“I need you to undress me.”

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Take my clothes off. I can’t do it.”

“I do appreciate that we have been on better terms as of late, but that’s awfully forward of you.”

Flint rolled his eyes. “You’ve done it before.”

“Isn’t it someone else’s turn?”

“Nope.”

“I fail to see how…”

“Look, Silver. I made a fool of myself out there, and since you’re so adept at making a fool of yourself, perhaps you can assist me in regaining the respect of my men who now think I’m incompetent.”

“No one thinks you’re incompetent, Captain.”

Above them, the men roared with a bout of laughter.

Flint stared hard at Silver and dripped onto the floor. 

Silver finally took pity on him. “You have to have to admit, they were very clever. They’ve rendered the captain of an enemy vessel completely useless.”

Flint glowered at him. “I’ll admit nothing. I’m going to hunt down those sons of bitches and sink the whole goddamn ship.”

“What did they do, anyway? Dump it over your head?”

“Trapdoor. Fell in.”

“That must have been one big vat of molasses.”

“It was. Shut up and help me.” 

“Yes, Captain.”

Silver stood back to assess. Where on earth was he to begin? Everything Flint was wearing was absolutely drenched. They would likely have to all be burned, or maybe towed behind the Walrus on a rope until they were wearable again. Meanwhile, Flint continued to drip onto the floor.

“Maybe start with the coat?” Flint suggested between clenched teeth.

Silver considered. He was likely going to be sticky and awful when this was done, too. Well, there was no use arguing. With his lower lip between his teeth, Silver gingerly began to peel Flint’s coat from his right shoulder. The molasses had gone right through it, and it made a horrible squelching noise as it separated from the fabric beneath it. He went around Flint’s back, and then tried again with the other side, only to find there was some kind of leather buckle in the way. 

“The clasp for the baldric’s in the front,” said Flint, and so Silver continued round until he was standing in front of the captain once more. 

“Are you wearing everything you own?” asked Silver, trying to work the buckle with sticky fingers. He eventually got it undone, and then he had to peel it like a fruit rind from Flint’s body. It hit the floor with a loud thunk, sword and all. Silver went back to the coat, and managed to pry the whole thing off Flint’s shoulders, but then it got stuck on his wrists. It was completely inside out at this point, too, and Flint’s arms were trapped somewhat behind him as Silver attempted to pull his arm free of the cuff. “I might have to cut it again,” said Silver, yanking.

“Don’t you dare. I never did get another white shirt. Mrs. Barlow will be displeased.”

Finally, Silver managed to free Flint’s left hand, and then began work on the right. “You know,” he said, “it might help matters if you try to relax a little. It feels like I’m robbing a corpse.”

“I can’t _relax_. It’s sticking to my skin. Every moment it’s on me, it’s thickening.”

Silver had been covered in unfortunate substances in his lifetime -- one notable occasion was doused with the contents of a chamber pot -- and he knew how awful it must be, especially for Flint, who, as far as pirates went, had impeccable hygiene. Flint had good teeth, and he never smelled overly foul, unlike some of the men who were honestly rank after just a day or two at sea. 

Flint must bathe in his cabin, unlike the rest of the men, who did so communally before they weighed anchor in a friendly port to visit their favorite whores. Silver had done so himself, washing down his own groin, underarms, and backside with the same cloth that had washed the groins, underarms, and backsides of the rest of the crew. Flint never joined them, but he was usually clean of most of the blood, salt, and grime he acquired shortly after a skirmish. Water could not be wasted on such frivolities as regular washing, unless it was necessary for good health. 

A great deal of water was going to be needed to get Flint clean again. He’d probably simply have to take a swim. That is, if he could still move.

Eventually, Silver worked Flint’s hand free of the right sleeve, and the coat fell heavily to the floor. 

“God, that weighs a ton,” said Silver. 

“I like that coat,” groused Flint. 

“We’ll wash it.”

“Keep going.”

The first time he’d undressed Flint, he’d had to cut off his sash to get his shirt untucked from his trousers. This time, however, looked to be much more tricky, simply because Flint was bedecked not only with a sash, but buckled atop it, three thick leather belts. Under all of that was...a waistcoat? Pirates didn’t wear waistcoats. Flint must have found it fetching, though, and indeed, had it not been soaked in molasses, Silver would have admired it: a double-breasted affair in dark-hued linen, braided embeliishments, and silver buttons. 

Silver had to keep wiping his hands on his own trousers to clean the gunk from them as he worked the belts free, first removing Flint’s pistol (which hopefully wasn’t ruined), daggers, and spyglass. These things he set gently atop the sullied greatcoat before he went to work unwinding the sash from Flint’s waist. He was pleased to see this was the one he’d stolen specifically for Flint, too. Silver went round and round him like a maypole in reverse, before finally the sash, too, was discarded. 

The waistcoat was next. Silver was about halfway down, six or so buttons left to go, when he realized Flint had finally stopped seething. His body was less tense, the fury subsided somewhat. He risked a glance at Flint’s face, only to become aware of how close together they were. 

Silver risked a smile; Flint huffed out his nose. He was sneering, but Silver presumed his face had just gotten stuck that way.

“Gotcha!” said Silver as he wiggled the last button free. He opened the placket of the vest only to find more buttons. “Seriously?” he said. “Dammit.”

“It’s a complicated garment,” said Flint.

“I can bloody well see that,” Silver replied. There were tiny hook-and-eye clasps at several points along the interior. “I’ve never seen you wear this before. Aren’t you boiling hot?”

“No.”

“God, I would be. Why, then?”

“I liked the look of it.”

“Really?” Silver stopped in his ministrations and looked up. “You’re concerned about the way you look?”

“Of course I am,” Flint scoffed. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“This looks like something a Navy man would wear,” Silver ventured.

“Keep going,” muttered Flint.

By now there was molasses under his nails, stuck in the webbing of fingers. It was very uncomfortable; he could only imagine what Flint must feel like, the viscous substance clinging to every part of him. 

Slowly, Silver wrestled the waistcoat off. He’d started muttering to himself halfway through, and he was now developing a personal hatred at Flint’s choice of garments. Maybe he should also wear a suit of armor, too?

Now that coats, baldrics, vests, belts, and sashes were all strewn about the floor, there was the matter of Flint’s shirt. The shirt, at least, Silver had seen before; it was one of Flint’s favourites. At one time, it might have been black. Maybe even blue, or brown. Now it was this faded dun-colored thing, but besides the discoloration, was still in good condition. The buttons were still on, the cuffs clasped tightly, intricate stitching around the collar. The problem was that a significant portion of the shirt was tucked into Flint’s trousers, and it was not coming out. A tug or two did nothing, so Silver went around the back and attempted to shimmy the material out. 

“Exactly how long is this shirt?” he asked as he strained to wrench the cloth free of the trousers.

“It covers what it’s supposed to.”

“It’s not coming loose,” Silver lamented. “I think your trousers will have to come off first. Or at least down. That shirt’s quite literally stuck to you.”

Flint sighed. “I can barely move. It’s...drying.”

“You want me to unbutton your trousers?”

“Yes, I want you to unbutton my trousers. How else are you going to get them off?”

“Okay, okay. Just. Um.”

“Oh for fuckssake, just do it.”

Silver had undone men’s trousers before, but Flint’s must be cursed. This was Silver’s assessment after trying for a solid five minutes to get them undone. Even Nassau’s most talented whores would be no match for these fastenings. “Blast it!” swore Silver. “I’ve got to sit down. I’m getting a kink in my back.”

Flint nodded toward his chair, and Silver went to sit in it. Flint, very slowly, squished toward him.

Silver pushed his sleeves back up above his elbows, blew his hair out of his face since he couldn’t touch it with his soiled hands, and went back to work.

“I _am_ going to have to cut these off you,” he said at last. 

“The hell you will. I like these trousers.”

“I can’t get them undone!”

“Here,” said Flint, and then his sticky hands were batting Silver’s away, only to make more progress than Silver had.

“How do you even unbutton these if you have to take an emergency piss?” grumbled Silver, who went back to work on the left side as Flint struggled with the right.

“They’re not normally this stubborn.”

Silver doubted it. Flint was the most stubborn man he’d ever met. It was only appropriate that he should wear trousers to match.

After a small eternity, they managed to get one button apiece, which loosened the trousers just enough for Silver to work Flint’s shirt out of them. 

At least he thought. Tugging on it still did nothing, so it was with a great sigh and a quick prayer that Flint didn’t throttle him that Silver snuck his hand down the back of Flint’s breeches, grabbed a hold of the shirt, and forcibly tugged.

“Ow!”

“Sorry.”

“It’s stuck to my arse!”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Does it sound like I’m kidding?”

“Hang, on, I’ve almost got it…”

“OW!”

“There. Now, for the other side.” Silver pulled and tugged and jostled and finally, the entire back of the shirt was free of Flint’s trousers. “What did you _do_?” he asked. “Take a bath in it? You’ve soaked everything you’re wearing clean through.”

“Pretty much. I went completely under when I fell through. It’s in my ears, Silver. Inside my nose.”

“Oh, God. That sounds awful.”

“I can attest to that. Keep going.”

Silver went back to the front. He was beginning to feel dizzy. “I’m going to have to stick my hands down the front,” he warned.

“Yeah, I figured.”

“Let’s see if we can’t get more of these buttons undone first.” Silver sat back down, tugged Flint closer to him by the hips, and tried his best. “I really do think we might have to cut the buttons off,” he said again. “You can sew them back on again.”

Flint growled. “Do what you have to.”

Silver pulled and yanked and tugged until Flint yelled again. “Ow!”

“I hate to be the one to inform you of this, but this is all stuck to, um. Your hair.”

Flint groaned. 

“And, you know, your, um…”

“Yes, yes. It is, I know, I can feel it. Just do it already.”

“Maybe we should get some water, try to soften some of this up.” There was a joke to be made about having his hands in Flint’s drawers and hardness, but Silver found it prudent to not say it aloud.

Flint sighed. “Honestly, that’s not a bad idea. Seawater will work fine. Don’t waste the fresh.”

“Do you want me to bring you some rum?”

“No. I want to be stone cold sober when I chase them down.”

“Right.” Silver ducked out and headed onto the deck. The men had stopped laughing and were looking at him curiously, as if they had never expected him to come out alive. “Water, gents?” Silver asked, and there was a flurry of activity while someone lowered a bucket and brought it back up.

Curious eyes watched Silver lugged it back to the captain’s quarters, trying not to spill any of it and making even more of a mess than there already was. The whole deck and captain’s quarters were going to have to be swabbed. Twice.

“Get the dipper,” said Flint. “Just kind of…” he made a gesture that meant _pour it over my crotch_. Silver would remember it forever.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

“Just do it. Oh, _fuck_ that’s cold!”

“Sorry.”

The water pooled for a moment where the shirt disappeared into Flint’s trousers before seeping down. 

“That feels even worse,” groaned Flint. “Buggering fuck.”

“Hang in there. Let’s see if that’s any looser. Yeah, I think so, I’m going to just…”

“Ow!”

“Tough it out, Captain. If the ladies of Nassau can strip themselves bare, you surely can handle a bit of tugging on the old…”

“OWWW!”

“There!” Silver smiled triumphantly as the shirt finally came loose. 

“FUCK!”

“Let’s just pull this over your head, now.”

Flint’s shirt joined the pile of clothing on the floor. He really did look a mess. There was molasses stuck to his skin, in his hair. He looked like a pig that had been wallowing. Silver knew better than to say this, too. 

“Okay,” he said instead, “let’s get these boots off. Oh Christ, Flint. Gaiters?”

“I always wear gaiters.”

Silver grumbled and knelt. “I’ll bet there were a hundred buttons on you.”

“That’s likely an accurate assessment,” said Flint.

“I think the best way of taking these off might be for you to sit down in your chair, and I’ll try to pull them off.”

“You’ll have to unbutton the gaiters, though,” said Flint. “I have them tight on purpose -- keeps out the water.”

“Maybe I’ll get you a nice pair of slippers,” groused Silver as he pried yet more buttons free from their holes. “Or sandals. Something without so many...bloody...buttons…”

Two sticky gaiters eventually joined the heap.

“Huh,” said Silver. Your boots are actually in decent shape.” He tugged the left and found it came off easily enough -- the right took a bit more finesse, but, too, was removed with only minimal toil.

Now all that was left were Flint’s trousers and hose.

“You think you can handle the rest from here?” asked Silver, trying not to look at Flint’s unbuttoned trousers or thinking about what was under them.

“Well, you’ve done this much. Might as well finish the job.”

Silver furrowed his brow. He was sure Flint was taking the piss, seeing how far he could get Silver to share in his embarrassment. And yet...was that humor crinkling the edges of the captain’s eyes? Maybe it was just drying molasses. Anyway, he couldn’t hold himself responsible for what would happen if he had to wrestle the captain out of his trousers. It wouldn’t be a lie to say he hadn’t fantasized about it. He had hoped, however, it would be under less...sticky circumstances.

“I think I’m done,” said Silver, and wiped his hands on a rag. His clothes were all tacky now, too. What a mess. He headed toward the door and was surprised to find Flint coming as well.

“There’s only one thing for it,” said Flint, wiping his forearm across his forehead. “I’ll have to take a swim.”

The men were silent as Captain Flint walked across the deck of _The Walrus_ in nothing but his breeches and hose, climbed up onto the rail, and then gracefully dove off it. A few minutes later he climbed back up, dripping and nude, molasses-free. His hair was as wild as his eyes. Silver couldn’t help but stare. Flint was always dark; clad in dark colors -- he wore the black the same way as his ship. There was nothing dark about him now; he was all pale, freckled skin, except in the places he was bright, the copper of his beard, underarms, chest, and groin. He strode across the deck, carrying his trousers (he must have lost the hose completely) in the crook of his elbow. 

A man is nothing, naked. He is flesh, he is soft places, he is vulnerable. Silver watched, awestruck, while Flint walked across the deck as if he had the biggest bollocks in the Carribean. (This was, in fact, not true. The water was actually chilly and had the opposite effect. This did not change how Silver saw him in the moment). To Silver, Flint looked even more dangerous than he had after beating Singleton with his bare hands. He looked like a sea god, like a vengeful water-spirit. This was going to do nothing to further fuel his fantasies. God! Those thighs! His chest!

“Give chase, men,” Flint shouted. “Gun crews to the ready! She’ll sleep at the bottom of the sea, tonight!”

The men cheered and bent to their tasks. Silver watched, awed, as Flint made his way back to the captain’s cabin. 

“Much obliged, Mr. Silver,” said Flint as he walked past Silver. 

Silver told himself that he absolutely should not ogle the captain’s buttocks.

He did, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure if molasses way back then was the stuff I envision today. I know there was molasses trade. It's how they shipped the sugar for rum.


End file.
